Two Hundred Miles
by K9Lasko
Summary: In a bleak post-apocalyptic world, DiNozzo and McGee struggle to keep each other alive.
1. Oxygen and Syllables

**Story Notes: **Loosely set in the world of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." _Very _AU. This story contains graphic violence, disturbing imagery, and off-color language.

**Chapter Notes: **First published November 30, 2012.

* * *

**(one)  
Oxygen and Syllables**

_**T**_he landscape rolled out in front of them, bleak and empty. The road was abandoned, now with only dead and drying leaves blowing across it. The sun, nothing but a murky red ball, was sinking lower and lower towards a far hill. They couldn't stop it. Soon it would be night, and with the moon and the stars veiled by smog and ash, it would be as black as an inkwell out here. And cold, too.

"Hey, where are we going?" McGee asked, stumbling along the pavement and almost dropping the backpack he had slung over his good shoulder.

DiNozzo didn't pause; he didn't even vary his determined gait. McGee had been asking that same question for days now.

They had stopped calling each other by their names. Just by "hey" or "you" or some sort of grunt or nudge. It was just the two of them anyway. "Tony" and "Tim" or "McGee" and "DiNozzo" had just become a superfluous waste of oxygen and syllables.

"I don't know," DiNozzo finally answered.

They had been walking for a while, following this road to the outskirts of the metropolitan area. DiNozzo had reasoned that it would be safer out here, safer away from the starving horde of humanity. His head hurt and he was queasy. Constant hunger nagged at his gut.

"You don't know yet?" McGee groused. "Then let's stop. I'm tired."

"We have to keep going."

"Why? We don't even know where we're going! We should stop, save our energy, and then figure out where we should go."

"I have an idea."

"Are you going to share that with me?"

DiNozzo refused to answer.

"Hey you, c'mon!" McGee sped up a bit, lurching forward to bring himself abreast with Tony. He stepped in front of him, stubbornly bracing himself when DiNozzo nearly tripped over the sudden fleshy roadblock. "What's your idea? Tell me."

"We're going to Gibbs' place," he finally answered. It was simple, to the point. He leveled his gaze on McGee in a weak attempt to portray strength and control.

McGee bit his lip and echoed, "Gibbs' place?" He studied DiNozzo for a bit. Studied him in the fading light closer than he had before. His eyes were dazed and glassy, no doubt still suffering the affects of having his skull nearly bashed in by a wooden bat. McGee reached out and grabbed at DiNozzo's dirty shirt in an attempt to prevent an escape, should he have chosen to do so. "Gibbs won't be there."

"We might be able to stay, at least."

"And if we don't find Gibbs and the house is completely looted?"

"We'll go to Stillwater," DiNozzo answered easily.

"Huh?" McGee frowned. "We'll walk to Stillwater." He nudged at his partner's side, intentionally brushing against an injured rib, as if to remind him of their less than stellar condition. He didn't balk at Tony's wince. "That's at least 200 miles. Are you crazy?"

"You have a better idea?" DiNozzo growled.

"Uh, yeah! How about instead of wandering around until we die of hunger and cold, we go back to civilization. They have to be setting up camps for survivors and maybe we can help some people instead of running away and saving our own skins…"

DiNozzo was suddenly pissed. He pushed himself close to McGee. "No! We're not going back there, you hear me?"

"You're not thinking clearly."

"I am thinking plenty clearly. You go back there and you're guaranteed to get ripped apart limb by limb for those granola bars in that backpack. Got that?"

"Your head is all bashed in." McGee wasn't exactly exaggerating. The bat had done a number. The point of impact was scabbed over and angry-looking, and during some moments Tony was loopier than others. McGee hated to admit that some nights, while it was his turn to sit watch, he wondered if Tony would even wake up when it was time for them to trade. If he never woke up, McGee would be truly alone. That both terrified him and made him feel guilty. He feared abandonment more than Tony's potential death.

DiNozzo suddenly patted him gently on his good shoulder and scooted to the side. "I know. But it hasn't made me stupid, okay? So just… calm down." Tony started walking again, as if nothing had happened.

The sun was now halfway hidden behind the hill. The both of them were casting long, faint shadows on the asphalt. The chill was already boring itself into McGee's bones.

"That's it?" Tim cried. "We're going to walk 200 miles to Stillwater? And for what purpose?" He watched DiNozzo's retreating back, but he refused to follow him.

"You wanna do your own thing? Go ahead," Tony replied without looking back. "Good luck."

McGee huffed. He was pissed off and beyond exhausted, so he limped off to the grassy shoulder and sat down, dumping the backpack as he did. He would rest for a few minutes while keeping an eye on DiNozzo's shrinking form. He rubbed at his shoulder and shut his eyes for a moment. He ached all over - not just physically, but mentally, too.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. It couldn't make calls, but sometimes he'd turn it on just to look at the pictures. Of Abby. Of Sarah. Even of the rest of the team. McGee gave himself only a few moments of reprieve while he chewed on a granola bar before he shut the device off again. The mapping application was still working, and if DiNozzo saw him wasting the battery, he'd get angry.

McGee gazed up the road. He still saw Tony, although it looked like he had slowed, probably to find a suitable place to kill the night. The darkness was closing in fast now. They may have wanted some distance before, but they didn't want to become separated. McGee wrapped up the remaining half of the granola bar, saving it for Tony. He then stumbled to his feet with a groan, slinging the backpack on his shoulder before tottering back onto the pavement.

He eventually caught up to DiNozzo, luckily before it got so dark they couldn't even see their hands in front of their faces. He'd gone off into the woods at the side of the road and found a place partially shielded from the cold breeze. They didn't acknowledge their earlier disagreement and barely even acknowledged the fact that they were together again.

"You go ahead and sleep," Tony said. "I'll take first watch."

McGee frowned. Usually he took first watch. "You sure?"

DiNozzo didn't answer. He simply grabbed the backpack and set it gently on the ground.

Still wary, Tim dug his jacket out of the bag. He then pressed the half of the granola bar into DiNozzo's hand. "Eat that." He watched as Tony went to sit on a rock, stuffing the bar into his mouth. As the night blanketed them completely, McGee curled up in the sweet-smelling leaf litter. As usual, he felt like an animal, but he was too exhausted to care. This was just another night to suffer through. He shut his eyes and waited for the hour when DiNozzo would nudge him awake and they would trade places.

* * *

_**T**_hat hour never came, and it was actually the pale daylight that finally nudged McGee into awareness.

He lay still for a while, his body sore but cocooned by dead leaves. He blinked and stared at the tops of the wintering trees and at the gray sky above. As he was pondering how morning had come so swiftly, he felt warm air on the side of his face. It was then when he remembered that DiNozzo was supposed to have woken him up for second watch. McGee all but bolted upright, ignoring his shoulder's sharp protest. He looked around. Same bleak woods. Same leaves. Then he looked down beside him.

Tony still slept, curled on his side and wrapped up in his tattered black jacket. His face was pale and lax with sleep. He was disturbingly close.

Tim was suddenly angry. No one had been keeping watch while they slept. Tony had taken first watch just so that he could go to sleep as soon as Tim had. Tony hadn't let him sleep out of kindness alone - he'd done it because it was advantageous to himself. Attempting to cap his sudden and irrational hatred of his friend, McGee punched DiNozzo's arm hard enough to leave a bruise.

DiNozzo jerked and grunted into some semblance of awareness. "Wha's happ'ning?" he slurred, blinking around like he was blind.

McGee frowned. As soon as he noticed Tony's reaction, he knew it was going to be a Bad Day with a capital B and D. It usually happened every fourth day, when DiNozzo would wake up as something less than fully cognizant. It was the head injury, for sure, rearing up and letting itself be known. Tony would stagger and slur; he'd even drool and piss on himself. For McGee, it was disgusting and terrifying. For DiNozzo, it was misery. Even McGee could see that, gazing into the other man's eyes and seeing only dim awareness.

"Nothing is happening," Tim answered tersely. "Other than the fact that we could have been mauled by wolves or something last night." Actually, he was beginning to think that was a preferable end to the hell they currently inhabited.

"No wolves." Tony's voice was barely audible.

"That's not the point. You promised that while one of us slept the other would keep watch. You promised."

"Sorry," DiNozzo whispered. He hadn't moved to get up; he was shivering.

Tim leaned his back against the thick trunk of a tree and rubbed at his face. The back of his eyeballs burned, as if he was suddenly going to cry. He wanted to scream at himself, to get a hold of his sanity. "It's okay," Tim finally said, a bit grudgingly. He took his own jacket and draped it over Tony's still body.

Indeed, it was going to be a Bad Day, and he'd be spending it all right here in this patch of woods. Alone.


	2. Twenty Questions, Closed Book

**Story Notes: **Loosely set in the world of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." _Very _AU. This story contains graphic violence, disturbing imagery, and off-color language.

**Chapter Notes: **First published December 23, 2012.

* * *

**(two)  
Twenty Questions, Closed Book**

_**T**_hey were out of water. Tony had refused to drink the remaining eighth of the bottle claiming the presence of "backwash filled with McCooties," so Tim had. His tongue had been burning for some liquid, and he couldn't imagine how Tony felt, despite his futile jokes.

The sun had already arced high in the sky, still obscured by the ash. Its rays were weak and pale, failing to adequately warm their bodies. Tony hadn't made any lasting effort to get up yet; he wasn't well enough to do anything right now, let alone walk, which would have helped ward off the chill. He remained in the leaf litter like something already dead.

Tim sighed. He'd already taken daily inventory of the bag. It was one of his obsessions as of late. Granola bars, empty water bottles, a dirty NCIS ball cap, strike on the box matches, a Swiss army knife, a rag, a note pad and stubby pencil, McGee's phone, DiNozzo's wallet-useless now. He supposed if they got hungry enough, they could chew on the leather. The thought of that was more than a little chilling, but then again hunger could make a man do strange things. They also had a few spare magazines for their guns, which they kept on their hips at all times while traveling. They didn't have much. Just the clothes they wore, their shoes - a precious commodity, their guns, and this bag.

McGee carefully repacked the bag, cataloguing everything for a third time. But one fact was infinitely more pressing than anything else. They were still out of water.

If Tim remembered, there was a stream further down the ridge. He'd heard it a few times while they had been following the road. It would probably take an hour to get to it, and more than an hour to get back, with the weight of the bottles in the backpack and the steep grade of the hillside. Then there was his shoulder, which throbbed and throbbed and throbbed some more in the cold.

Tim looked towards Tony, and then anxiously up at the sky. He should have thought about this earlier, but he'd been denying the fact that he would have to leave Tony for a few hours. Fact of the matter was, they needed water and they couldn't wait until tomorrow.

"Hey." Tim kneeled close, resting a cautious hand on Tony's side. He had quickly learned that a startled concussed DiNozzo was on occasion a feisty DiNozzo.

Tony was dozing, hovering somewhere between sleep and dim awareness. He barely stirred when Tim softly nudged at him. "Mmf," he groaned.

"We're out of water, so I'm going to go find some. Okay?" Tim was whispering. He didn't know whether or not loud noises were disturbing for Tony, but he imagined they would be.

"'Kay," Tony forced the simple word out. He blinked once, listlessly.

"Just… don't go anywhere." Tim didn't really think that would be a problem, judging by Tony's current state. He leaned forward a bit and carefully observed the wound on his head. It looked unchanged. Still disturbing. Blood and damaged tissue had congealed and hardened into a scab. It was enough to keep infection at bay, at least. Tim shivered before looking away, at the movement of Tony's side as he breathed in and out. Steadily.

Getting up with a grunt and rubbing at his face, Tim shouldered the bag full of empty bottles and started hoofing it down the ridge. With any luck, he wouldn't trip on a root and break his neck.

Tim hated the Bad Days. He hated being the sole being responsible for looking after DiNozzo. On any regular day, both of them looked after each other. That, he could handle.

* * *

_**M**_cGee had spent nearly half of an hour filling water bottles in that stupid creek. In order to avoid introducing muck into their supply, he had taken off his shoes and holey socks, rolled up his jeans, and waded into the center of the calf-high flow. He had nearly dropped a bottle or two, but luckily he made off with all the bottles he came with.

But now his legs were numb and rubbery, the backpack was heavy, and he had yet to climb back up the steep hill to get back to Tony. Heaving a sigh, Tim began the arduous hike.

After two hours spent toiling through slick and rotting leaves, Tim thought he was lost. He looked around desperately, searching for where he left Tony. He swore this was where they had spent the night. In a sudden panic, Tim searched the nearby area, breaking into a trot only to slow when his frozen legs attempted to tie one another into a knot. He nearly fell over in relief when he finally found his wayward friend. For whatever unknown reason, Tony had made the Herculean effort of dragging himself roughly twenty feet away. He was slumped over, shaking. He'd vomited, not far enough from his own face apparently.

"God, Tony," Tim muttered, actually saying his friend's name for once. "You're gonna make me waste one of these bottles of water, aren't you. You know how heavy this bag is?" he chastised Tony, but he didn't mean any of it. He kept his voice soft, almost gentle. Tim shook his head and opened the bag, pulling out one of the bottles.

"Lefff," Tony slurred.

Luckily Tim had since picked up on DiNozzo-scrambled-brain-speak. He responded patiently, "Yes, I left; I told you where I was going."

Awkwardly and with a fair bit of muted disgust, Tim washed his friend's face. He couldn't not do it. He couldn't make him lie around in his own vomit. Tony couldn't help it. Plus, that bat shaped dent in the man's head had been a product of their own escape. Both of their escapes. Together. They were alive because they stuck together. Tim didn't want to forget that. Especially during the times he flirted with thoughts of leaving DiNozzo behind, when things got really bad. When he thought Tony would die. When he thought they both would die.

"Didn' piss myself," Tony then said. "A' leas'." He was blinking up at Tim now, owlishly. And he was grinning weakly. If DiNozzo were a dog, his tail would be thumping against the leaves right now.

Tim let his lips quirk into a smile of his own. He squeezed Tony's shoulder not without friendly affection. "Yeah. Way to go, buddy."

* * *

_**T**_im slaved away the afternoon constructing a small fire for the night. DiNozzo hadn't really stopped shivering, and although he was a bit more cognizant now and he even managed to walk around their makeshift campsite in one lazy circle, tonight felt like it would be even colder. While collecting bits of tinder from the surrounding trees, Tim kept a watchful eye on Tony. He had layed down again, shivering under both his and Tim's jackets.

It would be a relief to them both to have some warmth. Usually a good day walking on the road kept them running hot, but with the whole day wasted by DiNozzo's busted head, they both needed a little help.

By the time the sun sank behind that same distant hill, Tim had a good blaze going with a decent bed of coals. Tony watched the orange flames lick the cold air, while Tim heated up two granola bars just for the sake of eating something hot. The both of them chewed in silence.

"Twenty questions," Tony murmured with his mouth full of chewy granola and chocolate.

Tim licked some melted chocolate off of his fingers. "Not tonight."

Tony must have been feeling better if he wanted to play one of his silly games. He was always the one to initiate them, said it would help pass the time. Tim preferred to spend his time in silence, but he joined in to humor Tony. Sometimes it was fun. Other times Tony, through no real fault of his own, would pry too deep.

But tonight, Tim was just tired, and he wanted to do nothing more than stare at the fire he had worked hard to create.

"Oh come on," DiNozzo then scoffed. "I'll let you ask the questions."

Tim shook his head but smiled a little.

"I'll be an open book. Ask and I shall answer."

"You'll never be an open book." Tim looked over at Tony. The fire flickered orange light over his face. His eyes were still glassy and unfocused. "Tomorrow night. Okay?"

"We might be dead by tomorrow," Tony argued.

"Yeah, we might be."

"Don't say that!" Tony suddenly cried as if he'd been burned.

Tim stared at him, unnerved by the sudden and nonsensical burst of emotion. "You're the one who mentioned it."

"Still..." Tony was looking around as if confused with where he was. He shook his head and winced.

"Tony-"

"You have chocolate on your lip," Tony interrupted. "Looks funny."

Tim frowned as he swiped at his face several times.

"Missed it," Tony grinned.

Tim now tried to find it with his tongue, reaching as far as he could with it. Suddenly he stopped because Tony was trying, and failing, to stifle a laugh. Tim's face fell into a glare. "You're an asshole." He started to get to his feet. The fire was throwing off enough light to allow him to write in the notepad for a while.

"Aw, c'mon you," Tony protested. "Twenty questions. You ask, I answer. I'll be an open book."

"You already said that," Tim said while digging for the notepad and stub pencil.

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did."

"Oh."

"Go to sleep, Tony. Tomorrow you'll want us to walk again."


	3. Gone, Left

**Story Notes: **Loosely set in the world of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." _Very _AU. This story contains graphic violence, disturbing imagery, and off-color language.

**Chapter Notes: **A short chapter. First published January 1, 2013.

* * *

**(three)  
Gone, Left**

_**G**_ibbs' neighborhood spread out in front of them, several blocks deep, several blocks wide. The streets were wide and vacant, only a few cars parked on the odd-numbered curb. In the fading light, the houses were dark, standing side-by-side, abandoned and empty. Resolute and obstinate.

"Where the hell is everybody?" Tim ventured to ask.

They stuck closely together, shoulders bumping on occasion as they limped on with sore feet. As they got closer to Gibbs' house, Tony began to walk faster, and Tim grit his teeth and readjusted the backpack in order to keep up.

Just as he was about to accost Tony with the fact that it was way past his turn to carry the bag, an old man stumbled from behind a gray, rusted Cutlass sedan parked several yards ahead. "Heathens!" he crowed, voice hoarse and cracking.

The tiny man was dressed in what could have been - and what very well may have been - a series of dirty dish cloths sewn together in a patchwork of brown rags. The makeshift shawl draped from bony shoulders and waved about as he flung his arms skyward, one hand clutching a book and the other a broken crutch. "Heathens! Get off my street! All of ya!" His black eyes rolled in their sockets and rockets of spittle flew to the pavement.

Tim was the first to stop. Stop and stare. He grabbed Tony by the elbow, to make sure he stopped as well. "Tony! Look." When Tony didn't say anything right away, Tim glanced his way. Tony was resting a hand on the gun secured at his side and staring at the slowly approaching figure.

The old man had a shuffling gait. His frame was shrunken and emaciated, and he wavered drunkenly in the chilly air, as if the smallest of breezes could have felled him. Tim was so engrossed by the sight that he didn't even notice that Tony had accidentally stepped on his foot.

Tony bristled. "You come any closer, old man," he began to shout across the diminishing distance, "I'll shoot you! You hear that grandpa?"

Tim gave Tony a strange look. "He's like four feet tall and barely one hundred pounds when you include even the book, crutch, and all those rags," he reasoned.

But Tony wasn't one to let even friends off the hook long enough to trust, let alone some demented stranger. "I got a weird feeling," he answered shortly.

"The end is nigh!" The old man was now hollering, loud enough to wake a roosting flock of black birds. "The end is nigh! Judgement day is upon us! And you! You!"

"We what?" Tim couldn't help but ask. The old man was weaving around now, as if he had trouble seeing.

Tony scoffed. "He's crazy." Still, he let his hand slowly lower away from his gun, though he kept an eye on the broken crutch. It looked like someone had sawed off the end, so instead of a rubber grip there was just jagged polyethylene.

"You are still in judgement!" the old man cried.

He was now close enough that Tim could smell him. The stench of piss and unwashed skin and sour rags hit him like a brick to the face - or in Tony's case, a bat to the head. Tim saw how Tony visibly winced and stepped back and away. Sure, the both of them didn't smell of roses and Ax for men, but at least they made an attempt to keep themselves clean. Tim saw now that the man was brandishing a battered copy of the Bible. He also saw that the man had to be partially blind. When he looked their way, he seemed to be looking through them at something in the distance.

"Sir!" Tim attempted to draw the man's attention away from heathens and judgement day and back to reality, if that was what this truly was. "Do you know if anybody is living in that house?"

The old man swayed and almost tumbled sideways, surprised that one of these newly found heathens had even bothered to ask such a mundane question. "Which house?"

"The big one. Right there." Tim gestured grandly at Gibbs' house. It was his hope that the man would pick up on the motion.

"Gone!" he croaked. "They are all gone!"

"Gone?"

"Left."

"Left?" Tim parroted. He had been hoping - hoping beyond hope - that someway, somehow the entire team - Gibbs, Ziva, Abby, Ducky, all of them - had made their way here. If he just went up to that door, they would all be waiting inside. Steaks on the fire, plenty of bourbon, boat in the basement, free hugs from Abby. Somebody could take care of Tony during the Bad Days. They could all take hot baths.

Tim suddenly felt a weight shove into his sore shoulder. He gasped in pain and almost tripped over his feet. His imagination crashed hard back to Earth. He realized that it had been Tony, impatient and angry, who had pushed him aside. "Hey!" Tim managed to protest. The bag almost dropped to the pavement as he gingerly clutched his shoulder.

"That's enough!" Tony snarled. "Who's gone? Who left? Where did they go?"

"Exodus!" The old man nodded. "Nobody is here. Nobody is here but me. May they all burn in Hell!"

"And that house?" Tony interrupted, pointing at Gibbs' house.

"Which house?"

"He's crazy," Tony repeated. Tim felt him grab onto his arm and yank him towards the front door. Tim followed, not finding much inspiration to do anything else. He cast a glance over his shoulder towards the old man, who was again waving his arms around.

"Heathens! Heathens!" he was screeching anew. Re-energized, perhaps, by the sighting of real, live human beings. Real, live heathens. "May God have mercy on your rotten souls!"

Tim turned away, shrugging free from Tony's grasp on his arm. "You think Gibbs is here?" he asked quietly.

"No," Tony answered. "I don't."


	4. Viscera

**Story Notes: **Loosely set in the world of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." _Very _AU. This story contains graphic violence, disturbing imagery, and off-color language.

**Chapter Notes: **Warning. Potentially graphic imagery. First published January 24, 2013.

* * *

**(four)  
Viscera**

_**T**_he house was empty.

No Gibbs. No Ziva. No Abby. No anybody. Not even a cockroach or a trail of ants.

Even with the front door unlocked, the place was untouched and un-looted, as if Gibbs' presence still hung around, warding off thieves and beggars with a short-barreled shotgun. The air in the house smelled of wood dust and dank rags from lack of ventilation, but other than that, it was clean. Nothing sat out on the counter, nor was anything out of place.

Gibbs had not been home during the "event."

The two of them stood awkwardly in the foyer, just beyond the threshold. McGee still glanced backwards, checking for the old man who had retreated to some place unknown. He'd wanted to offer him a night indoors, but DiNozzo had vetoed that immediately, unfeelingly. They now blinked at their surroundings, giving time for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. McGee rubbed absently at his sore shoulder; it burned.

Without a word exchanged, they methodically went from room to room. They stayed together, close together, as they inspected every bedroom, every bathroom, every closet, every nook, cranny, and tight corner. The wood floors groaned and creaked under their combined weight.

In the pink-carpeted spare room, Tim removed his worn sneakers and his disintegrating socks. He let his bare feet sink into the plush carpet and wiggled his toes. It was soft and yielding, like he was standing on a plain of cotton balls. It was amazing how something so simple could feel so comforting after days spent trudging over leaf litter, highway pavement, and muddy clay. He caught Tony's questioning look and grinned at the way he cocked his head. "It feels good," Tim explained. "Try it."

Slowly, and with a struggle to keep his balance that made Tim wince, Tony also shed his shoes and socks. "Wow. You're right, McFeelGood."

They stood there and smiled at each other like idiots until Tim noticed the blood on Tony's feet. "You're bleeding," he stated bluntly.

Tony shrugged. "Blisters. These shoes are terrible." They were dress shoes. Italian leather and no doubt expensive once upon a time. Their ordeal had reduced them to scuffed and muddy lumps, nearly unrecognizable as shoes.

Their smiles faded into frowns.

* * *

_**G**_ibbs kept his cupboards well stocked with canned and dry foods of all sorts. Tim sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor - counting, sorting and arranging their sudden stockpile by candlelight. The categories were simple. Canned items in one, crackers and chips in another, rice and potato packets, cookies, and a miscellaneous section that included unopened Heinz ketchup, teriyaki, and hot sauce bottles, as well as a sealed jar of green olives.

They had eaten their fill earlier. It was a veritable feast that they had cooked in the fireplace. Macaroni and cheese without the butter or the milk, an aged packet of Cajun dirty rice, some pungent canned tuna fish, and a whole sleeve of Townhouse crackers. All of it slathered with ketchup and hot sauce.

What would have been disgusting any other time ended up being the most delicious thing they'd eaten in days.

So now, with their bellies full, McGee worked on organizing. He'd get the food situated and then he'd move on to clothes and blankets and shoes. Keeping busy allowed him to think less. And thinking less allowed him to doubt DiNozzo less.

Tony had disappeared into the basement. Tim couldn't decide if the mewling noise that drifted into the kitchen was sobbing or the gate outside swinging in the wind. He paused what he was doing and drew his knees against his chest. He stared at the neat piles of food. Maybe he should change up the categories… organize them better…

A sudden cry broke the solitude. "Heathens!"

Tim blinked and looked towards the window.

Suddenly, there were more voices, hollering and threatening. Tim stood up, moved quickly across the cold tile floor, and pressed himself against a window that looked over the street. There were no lights, not anymore, but the moon was full and its light punched through the Earth's murky atmosphere. It was just enough illumination to differentiate objects from the black emptiness of night. Enough for Tim to see three rangy forms antagonizing a fourth, much smaller shadow.

It was the old man, and he was crying "Heathens! Heathens!" much like he had been before. One member of the pack leapt forward to grab and shove before leaping back again, only to be replaced by the next. And on and on until the old man was stumbling in drunken circles in his attempts to avoid their clawing fingers.

Tim looked immediately at the stairway that led to the basement, where he'd last seen DiNozzo. "Tony!" he called. When there was no answer, not even a shuffling in response, Tim called again. "Tony! Up here! Quick!"

The pack soon grew tired of playing, and one charged at the old man with enough force to knock him to the ground. The other two closed in, limbs kicking and flailing. Tim's breath quickened as he watched in muted horror. He knew this was the end for the old man unless someone was to intervene. Someone like Tim.

DiNozzo still hadn't miraculously appeared to back him up, but the last thing Tim wanted to witness was an old man getting beaten to death on the street. Not when he had the gun and the training to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. End of the world Hellscape or not, he was still Special Agent Timothy McGee, and he was going to show these bastards a thing or two.

Or at least try.

Tim grabbed the trusty 9mm Sig and gave it a brief once over to make sure it was in shooting condition. The hollers and the cries were getting louder outside as he yanked open the door and hurdled past the threshold of safety. He felt his hands shaking from the sudden adrenaline as he held the gun out in front of him. Tim yelled like something possessed, "Get out of here! Leave him be!"

The three attackers were all men, large but underfed, their bandied limbs taut with sinewy muscle. They were clothed in stained and stinking fabric - more than likely stolen sweaters and coats, whatever they could scavenge from whomever they could rob. They were armed by short bowie knives. The moonlight caught their steel edges and made them flash. On his knees and bent halfway to the ground, the old man was clawing out with crooked fingers, scraping dingy fingernails against the rough street pavement. It was a feeble attempt to extricate himself from the fray, but the pack was voracious and determined. McGee's presence changed nothing for them.

So Tim broke protocol and shot into the air. Not like anyone was keeping up with protocol anymore.

The effect was almost comical. All three attackers scattered in three different directions, like vultures spooked off of road kill. But they didn't flee far. Now they were three different targets. One in front, one to the side, and the other behind. Tim hadn't foreseen this, and his gut clenched in unison with his heart. They laughed and swore and looked to each other for a collective plan. Struggling to maintain a handle on all three of their positions, Tim aimed the gun at the smallest one, but he wasn't smaller by much. He then eased closer to the old man

"Why are you protecting this crazy geezer?" One of them asked with something akin to genuine curiosity. "He'll be dead by morning!"

Another one laughed, high pitched and nervous. "Yeah, we've come to collect his goods before anyone else can!"

Tim fought the panic, locked it up in a vault in the back of his mind. Instead he wondered - if these people were so driven and desperate - why Gibbs' house had remained untouched. He made the mistake of looking down towards the old man cowering at his feet and looking more like a shriveled carcass than a human being.

They had all turned into animals, slavering and dumb.

"McGee! Behind you!" Someone bellowed.

But before Tim could even react, grubby, vice-strong arms had already enveloped him from behind. He cried out in surprise and wrenched his body to the side while kicking backwards with his feet. They wrestled awkwardly; the gun flew across the pavement, coming to rest by the small tire of an aged Geo Metro. His attacker had a firm grip on his knife - a savage looking thing - and he was tightening his hold, angling its edge towards Tim's soft throat.

Until the both of them were tilted on their side by some sudden and violent force.

Tim landed hard on his bad shoulder, and he screamed out in agony. Forcing himself to measure his gasping breaths, Tim looked to the side.

It was DiNozzo who was now grappling with the man. They fought like cats. On the ground. Rolling over and over. Clawing and ripping and squealing. The man no longer had his knife.

Tim blinked and found that it was resting nearby. He grabbed at it before one of the remaining two could advance any closer. Ears ringing and his shoulder throbbing, he dragged himself to his knees and held the knife's handle in both hands, pointing it outward. "Stay away!" he warned. While Tim's threat worked on one, the other merely huffed and turned to help his buddy dispatch DiNozzo.

One on one was hard enough, but two on one was impossible. Tim watched from the corner of his eye as Tony started to lose in a spectacular fashion.

The two were working together to kill and maim.

"Grab him by the throat!"

"Hold him down!"

"Let's get him to spill his guts!"

"Yes!"

They were maniacal, gleeful. The bigger one pinned Tony down by the throat, choking and straddling, while the smaller one - his own knife still in hand - tore and ripped at Tony's clothing to reveal his soft belly. Tony fought with his entire being. He twisted and squirmed until it appeared like he was locked in a series of spasms. It took Tim too long to figure out that Tony's gasps for air were actually muffled screams of terror. He barely even realized that he himself was screaming for them to stop, to let him go.

The smaller man was smiling as he held the knife's edge against Tony's stomach. "This is my favorite part!" He enthused. Blood began to blossom from where the blade met the skin, slow at first and then-

_CRACK._

The hands holding the knife jerked and then fell away. Like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, his entire body fell to the side, landing in a dead heap.

Everyone froze. Even Tim, whose breaths came hard and fast and whose knuckles were white like bone. And then, without prelude, the remaining two of the pack skittered away, melting into the dark as suddenly as they had come. They didn't pass their dead companion a second look. They made their decision mutually and silently. Like jackals, they were gone.

Tim dropped the knife. The clatter of steel against concrete resonated in the sudden quiet. He crawled towards where Tony lay, undoubtedly still petrified by shock and the close brush with death. "Tony?" Tim called, voice catching in his throat. God, he'd never felt so scared and useless. Not recently. He'd convinced himself that he was going to watch Tony get eviscerated tonight. He was going to watch as those crazed monsters ripped his friend apart. But it hadn't come to pass. Not today. Hopefully not ever.

None too gently, Tim shoved the rest of the dead man's body off of Tony. He carefully inspected the shallow cut that bled thin lines down Tony's side. He then leaned forward to look straight down at Tony's hazel eyes. "You okay?"

Tony was shaking and breathless, but he nodded as if he meant it. "Yeah. Yeah, Tim. I'm fine. You shoot him?"

Tim shook his head. "No."

Both of them looked over and watched as the old man placed the gun back on the ground, almost where he had found it near the Geo Metro's tire. Then he turned, limping and lurching, to stare at Tony and Tim. "Heathens! All of them!"

Tim smiled and heaved out a sigh, letting his hand rest on Tony's chest, monitoring his breaths. He looked at the old man. "Thanks. I guess."

"More like 'you're welcome,'" Tony corrected before swatting Tim's hand away. He rolled stiffly onto his elbow. "C'mon, McHero," he groaned. "Show's over."


	5. Pancake Batter, Brain Matter

**Story Notes: **Loosely set in the world of Cormac McCarthy's "The Road." _Very _AU. This story contains graphic violence, disturbing imagery, and off-color language.  
**Chapter Notes:** Warning. Graphic imagery.

* * *

**(five)**  
**Pancake Batter, Brain Matter**

_**A**_nd so they became three, occupying Gibbs' creaking old house for the past two days as if it were their own. DiNozzo had wanted nothing to do with the old man, but Tim had all but begged and cajoled, which was why the stranger - still stinking in his old rags - now sat on the couch and blinked peacefully at the fire.

Their attackers had not been seen since, and they'd decided to leave the dead body out in the road like a talisman against evil. The false spring of a week ago had faded away into a wintery reprise as gray snow drifted from a black sky. Tony, Tim, and the old man had done little in the past 48 hours than sit, eat, help each other heat water for baths, and - worst of all - think.

Tim peered through the blinds and watched as the snow began to accumulate on what was visible of the dead man's body. He remembered how the bullet had punched right through the man's temple, almost cleaving his head in two. He remembered how the blood and brain spatter congealed on DiNozzo's face. He remembered how he'd put two hands clumsily on his friend's chest so that he could feel the frenzied rise and fall. Tony had been more than merely afraid, he knew. Panic like that was meant to be rare.

"Let him rot out there," Tim whispered before rubbing at his face. More and more, he felt like he was losing it. "It" being his tenuous grip on reality - or what he thought reality _should_ be. Now he didn't know what to expect at all. Life as they'd known it was over.

Moving restlessly from his window post, he padded silently through the doorway of the spare bedroom where Tony had chosen to seclude himself. After nearly being gutted, Tony had been moving slower and wincing more often. Tim had expected that after a struggle as violent, but he still worried. Worried that something else had happened to his head, or to his psyche, or to something else. Tony wasn't talking as much, his moods seemed even darker than usual, and he now sought solitude like an ailing cat. But DiNozzo was DiNozzo; he preferred to deal with things on his own.

It was the presence of the old man, Tim knew. That was the crux of it. But Tim couldn't figure out whether it was the old man himself who caused the strife, or if it was because DiNozzo hadn't gotten his way.

Then again, maybe it was this house. Gibbs' house. Tony had retreated more than once down into that basement, and if he came back up the stairs with red-rimmed eyes and a blotchy face - well - that was Tony's business and no one else's.

Now in the bedroom, Tim looked at the Tony-shaped lump hidden under a stack of blankets and quilts. It was colder in here, away from the fire, and if Tim breathed deeply, he could even see his breath.

"Tony," he whispered, nearing the bed. The lump did not move.

It had gotten dark hours ago. The fire had started to die down into glowing orange coals. Soon the old man would fall asleep on the couch. And Tim would be alone again with his anxiety.

"Tony," he repeated, this time a little louder. The lump shifted minutely and mumbled. Tim peeled back some covers and hitched a knee onto the mattress. The dipping down of the mattress made DiNozzo jolt in alarm. He raised a fuzzy head and stared at Tim with dark, suspicious eyes. "Relax," Tim fought back an awkward laugh. "The couch is occupied, and I don't wanna sleep upstairs again. Or on the floor. It's creepy up there, and it's cold."

DiNozzo gingerly dropped his head back onto the pillow. He made a half-groaning half-yawning sound that Tim took as acquiescence.

Tim carefully eased himself onto the bed, keeping his body as close to the edge as possible. Dragging the quilt up to his chin, he stared up at the dark ceiling.

"Long as you stay on your own side, McGroper" Tony slurred in warning.

The corners of Tim's lips twitched into a small smile, and he looked over at his recalcitrant and unlikely bedmate. But DiNozzo had already sunken back into sleep, eyes shut and face partially burrowed into the pillowcase. He breathed slow and steady. Irrefutably alive, the both of them. Tim returned his gaze to the ceiling. He'd lie like this for hours, until sleep finally came. If it came at all. He hoped it would tonight.

* * *

"_**S**_o where'd you learn to shoot like that?" Tim made conversation as he slowly stirred a bowl of pancake batter they'd inventoried the other day.

He was being resourceful in the kitchen. The fire had been rekindled, and a pot of ice cold water was slowly heating for coffee, or some facsimile of coffee. And though Tim had never thought to make pancakes over a fire before, he figured it was worth a shot. He'd do anything for a taste of normalcy. Which included making small talk with his newly acquired friend.

The old man wasn't much of a lucid talker, but there were occasional bursts of coherency. The past days' steady diet had helped, and Tim was beyond pleased with the results of their humanitarian efforts. _His_ efforts, Tim had to correct himself. Despite the fact that the old man had literally saved his innards from a very brutal restructuring, DiNozzo was still decidedly lukewarm about his presence. Tim actually enjoyed having someone who wasn't Tony around; there was a variation in conversation and body language that he found himself missing over the past weeks. He'd just keep ignoring the fact that the old man was clearly mentally ill. Beggars couldn't afford to be choosy.

The voice was hoarse but clear. "Vietnam."

Tim stopped stirring to look across the room. The old man was sitting up and for the first time since his arrival, he'd relinquished the ragged copy of the Bible. It sat on the wooden coffee table, right next to the neatly arranged issues of _WoodenBoat Magazine._ "What was that?" Tim asked.

"9th infantry. Had myself a sweet little pre-'64 Winchester Model 70. Never met anything more reliable; I slept with that thing, boy. Your buddy's little Sig pistol ain't got nothing on her."

"So you were an Army sniper…" The thought of pancakes had all but disappeared from Tim's mind. This was the most he'd gotten from the old man thus far. He stepped closer to the couch. "You know my boss... He was a Marine Corps sniper."

"Eh Marines. I'll never hear the end of that fanfare. Is he the one with you now?"

"What, Tony?" Tim held down a laugh as he sat down gingerly. "No, he's not my boss. More like a partner."

"You two aren't queer on each other, are you?" The old man was suddenly suspicious.

Tim blinked, admittedly blindsided by the question. This time he actually did laugh. "No. We're not. We work together."

The old man shifted the blanket he had wrapped around him. "Good. So maybe you're not one of them."

Tim's smile wilted into a subtle frown. "One of who?"

"Them. The heathens. They are everywhere now."

"Heathens?" Tim was suddenly disappointed. He could see the familiar agitation returning to the old man's mannerisms. His sanity seemed to be fleeting.

"Murderers, rapists, queers, atheists… God is angry, boy. You wonder why things are as they are now? Sin has taken its toll."

"But I don't-"

"I don't trust your friend," the old man lowered his voice. "I think he's got a touch of it in him."

"What are you talking about? Tony is-"

"Shhhh!" The old man shifted the blanket again. "Come closer. C'mon. There's something you need to know before it's too late."

Tim hesitated, glancing briefly down the hall toward the guest room. But then he scooted over. Closer, as the old man had suggested. He trusted himself to react if something happened.

"Listen closely to me. You need to-"

The old man's head exploded. A chunk of skull with an ear still attached flopped to the braided carpet. Brain matter and an eyeball slithered down the old man's body as he bucked once and then folded over-right onto Tim's lap. Eyes wide and muscles frozen, Tim stared at the carnage, hands hovering over the ruined skull, unsure where to put them first. His thoughts looped in place, like a skipping record, unable to comprehend how a single moment could rip an entire man's face in two. He felt blood warming his lap as he studied the way the gaping wound seeped, the brain matter pink and glistening. Tim lurched suddenly to the side, arms landing on the coffee table as he retched violently on the magazines and the old man's Bible. He scrambled on hands and knees away from the couch as he retched again and again.

"Mother fucker." Someone swore loudly.

Sprawled on the floor, Tim wiped uselessly at his stained pants. He looked up to see Tony poking roughly at the half-headed corpse with the muzzle of Gibbs' vintage pre-'64 Winchester Model 70.

"Tony? Why did you-?" Tim started, his tongue like a useless lump of flesh in his mouth.

Tony answered bluntly and with full certainty. "He was going to kill you, McGee." He set the rifle aside and now used his hands to search the body in earnest.

"No, he wasn't!" Tim cried. Despite his nausea and shock, he was staggering to his feet.

"Yes, he was!" Tony tore at the blankets and the old man's stinking clothes. The longer the search took the more frantic it became.

"You shot him in the head!"

"I was protecting you."

"You shot his face off!" Tim shouted even louder.

Tony repeated, "I had to protect you." Finally, he found something, and he ripped it away from the corpse with an air of victory. "See?"

Tim focused his eyes on the object in DiNozzo's shaking hands. It was a knife sheathed in leather, with a blade roughly three inches in length. "He wasn't going to use that against me," Tim hissed.

"He was going to. I felt it in my gut. Now go clean yourself up. You have barf on your face." Tony took the body under the armpits and dragged it to the center of the rug. "I'll just roll him up like a burrito, and you can help me drag him out."

DiNozzo had to be crazy; that was the only explanation for this morning's bizarre behavior. Something had to have gone wrong in his head. Tim stared at him warily, realizing for the first time that his friend was clothed only in boxer shorts and one of Gibbs' USMC hoodies. "Tony-"

"You're going to help me, dammit. You're going to help me like I helped you." Suddenly DiNozzo was advancing towards him, and Tim didn't know whether to stand his ground or shy away. Tony still had the knife in his hands. He carefully unsheathed it and studied the blade as he ran it over his trembling fingers.

"Tony, what are you doing?"

"He was going to kill you, McGee. Don't you see?" He begged for Tim to see, to realize, but Tim could see no rationalization for what Tony had done.

He shook his head. "You killed him; he wasn't going to touch me."

DiNozzo was suddenly pissed, and he lurched forward, knife dropping forgotten to the floor. "Why don't you just trust me?"

It was then that Tim shied away, but not quite soon enough. Tony's weight slammed into his front and the both of them careened into the wall. Tim gasped first from the impact, and then from the way Tony was clenching at his throat. A moment passed before Tim realized that he had to fight back. "Tony stop," he all but sobbed. He collapsed to the floor, bringing Tony with him, where they wrestled until Tim began to see gray spots floating in his vision.

But then he remembered the pot of heating water. Having only survival on his mind, Tim grabbed the pot and swung it at Tony. The hot water sloshed on them both, but mostly on his target, as the pot connected with the side of Tony's face.

The resulting squeal of pain that came from Tony made the bile rise again in Tim's throat. He sat shaking, knees drawn to his chest and fingers rubbing at his throat, as he watched Tony thrash about, hands wiping uselessly at the water. But finally he laid still on the rug, curled on his side and breathing hard and fast. Tim swallowed hard and watched as Tony's skin turned an angry red from the scalds.

"Oh god, god," Tim murmured to himself. He crawled on rubbery limbs towards DiNozzo. "I'm sorry," he breathed out. "I'm sorry; I don't know what happened." Apologizing seemed to come first to him, no matter that it was he who had been violently strangled. He checked Tony's head, carding through the hair and making sure that the pot hadn't done further damage.

"He was going to kill you," Tony mumbled, glassy eyed and distant.

"Maybe," Tim whispered, conceding that fact for his mentally scrambled friend. He touched the burns gently. Luckily, they seemed superficial. The water had been hot, but not boiling.

"Not going to let them kill you."

"You won't," Tim soothed awkwardly. "You won't let them. I… I trust you." He looked towards the dead body and cringed.

"Not going to be left behind. _Not_ going to be left behind."

"You won't," Tim repeated. He felt Tony's hazel eyes on him, as they tried to catch his own. But he had fixed his gaze elsewhere, avoiding that closeness he didn't feel he was ready for. Not after watching a man get shot in the face. "You won't be left behind."


End file.
